By Lisa Owens
Inspired by current events - 6/15/2020
“8 minutes and 46 seconds:” the length of the video footage of the death of George Floyd as filmed by Darnella Frazier
A 2nd Place Winner in the WOW (Women on Writing) Q-4 2020 Creative Nonfiction Essay Contest ! A Social Justice Winner
View story here on WOW!
Star of the Show
I pinch myself on the arm hard enough to say “Ouch!” I am awake...not dreaming as I first suspected...and have come to the realization that I am walking around Vanderbilt University looking for something. I don't know how I came to be walking around this stately campus, and more importantly, why I am here. Walking and walking and looking for a street name I can’t remember. Is there any money in my wallet? I don’t think so.
I pause to glance at a couple of girls giggling while watching a lone girl study her phone. One of the gigglers begins a woeful love song directed at the solo girl. Heartfelt and boisterous, tearful and tone-deaf, she continues to the end not mindful of the gathering crowd. When she finishes baring her soul, I applaud and say “Bravo!” then move on.
Where is that street? Why am I here? Still walking, I decide to find a place to stay, maybe take a cab, then spying a Gothic university hotel; I remember my cash-poor situation and continue on. Bet it won't be cheap. I pass two young ladies talking and laughing, the younger of the two, leaning on the other in a moment of hilarity. A cab pulls up. I look hopeful. Maybe I can...the leaning-girl motions me over.
“Are you lost?” she asks.
“Sort of and I need to get to a hotel,” I say, shifting my gaze downward.
“Want to share the cab? We can drop you wherever,” she offers, opening the back door.
We three pile into the back seat, squished together like sardines. The leaning-girl turns my way, face joyful and flushed, a small bead of sweat on her upper lip.
“I have a very important day. There will be a gathering like I’ve never seen before. All there just to see me. I’ll be the star of the show.”
Her companion, silent up to this point, smiles at me and nods, a tear forming in the corner of her left eye.
“That’s right. A special day. My sister is going to be the star. The one everyone is coming to see.” She is glowing with pride. “This is the moment we have all been waiting for and it could really change her life.”
I am stunned by the beauty of them; the older sister with her arm around the younger who is soon to be star of the day. Star of the show. The star is weak with anticipation. Is she a budding actress? Is this her big break, the one all actors dream of while slinging hash at demanding diners day-in and day-out only leaving to rush to the next audition?
The older sister reaches into her purse pulling out lipstick and a tissue, dabbing at the sweat mustache on the budding actress. Perfectly-Pink lipstick is gently applied next. “You’ll want to look your best for the team.”
The cab begins a right-hand turn into a parking lot. I reach for my bag ready to make my exit and leave these lovely sisters to continue on. Looking over, I see the older sister reach for the door handle as she hands the driver a wad of crumpled cash.
He glances my way, “We’re here.” I twist my head to see. Not a hotel. A hospital. No, a research center.
“I decided to drop them first. Okay with you?” I nod. They exit; the older sister is supporting the star. As they make their way, a medical team meeting them at the door is all smiles. The glowing star is ceremoniously seated...a plastic princess crown placed atop her curls.
Her team begins to push her wheelchair toward a new life. She looks back at me. Smiles. Waves. Mouths, “I’m ready for my show.”
I think how being the oldest of three siblings, I found myself playing the role of "Mama" at a young age. I was expected to make school lunches, clean house, babysit, and exist without emotional support of any kind. Never allowed to whine or cry; help, in any form, would have been truly life-changing.
My reason becomes clear. I reach into my wallet pulling out a mysterious ten, nonexistent up to this point. Thrusting it toward the driver; I exit the cab. “Wait up!” I shout, running to take the older sister’s hand.
By Lisa H. Owens
Her very first story, inspired by a dream (April 2018)
Published on https://www.beneaththesurfacenews.com/post/star-of-the-show 5/2020
Beginning Wednesday, March 26th, like so many other Americans, I was relegated to WFH (Work From Home) referring to employees doing their jobs from home in a self-quarantined attempt to not catch or spread the COVID-19 virus. On occasion, I would be driving the 30 miles to work when it was necessary for me to access certain files in order to create reports that were not possible to create at home. I knew it was bound to happen sooner or later. The virus was now officially in my county with multiple confirmed positive tests.
Tuesday, my last office day, I entered the building and was immediately handed an envelope with my initials “LHO” penciled in on the top right corner and the words "Essential Service Correspondence" typed in 48-point font...easy to read for anyone wearing hazmat gear, I guess. It contained a one-page letter explaining our business—environmental engineering—and how our scope of work is essential to the nation. If it ever became necessary to mandate martial law with checkpoints for people out and about, this letter would verify that I am commuting to a job vital to the country. The new addition to my business cards, in bright red letters enclosed in parentheses, read: (Essential Service Provider). I was instructed to keep this envelope along with the new business cards in my car glove compartment.
After putting my contact lenses in…I can only tolerate the mono-vision effect for short bursts of time without getting the feeling that my eyes are filled with sand and either over or under focusing…I sat down and completed everything stacked on my desk in about four hours. Before saying goodbye to stay home for an indefinite period, I grabbed a canister of Lysol wipes and proceeded to clean every surface in our building touched by human hands—light switches, doorknobs, refrigerator handles, the microwave handle and control pad, coffee maker buttons, computer keyboards and mouses (…or is it mice?), wall thermostats for temperature control, the security-code key-pad, copier/printer key-pads, the faucet handles and finally, toilet flushing levers. I wanted a clean, germ-free slate once everything got back to normal and our staff returned.
On day one of WFH and having completed the limited scope of work I could do without access to the files kept at the office, I decided to make the most of my downtime and do those handyman (handy-woman in my case) projects that I had been putting off. My dad usually broke as well as a cheapskate, dubbed me his apprentice early on in life. He was a mechanical engineer and though he over-thought some things to the point of paralysis (over-analysis-paralysis) he was very skilled in doing most things that related to keeping a household up and running without paying a professional to come in. He had a small set of Sears Craftsman tools that I would pass to him as we did various projects, reminiscent of a surgical nurse passing scalpels and various instruments to a surgeon.
After he passed away in October of 2018, I kept what was left of those tools to remind me of those times we had shared.
I ran out to the garage to grab his set of socket wrenches, excited to use them for the first time since inheriting them. They were still in the original burnt-orange hinged box—now slightly dented and speckled with little rusted areas. Stuck to the lid was a peeling, discolored piece of masking tape that read “Top/Up” in his handwriting. Woe be it to you if you opened his set upside-down, spilling sockets, extenders, and the like all over the ground. I saw him do it once while we were working on a project and it was the only time I heard him curse. Unsnapping the two closures, making sure the “Top/Up” was on top, I was not at all surprised to see that each socket was in the groove marked with its respective size and polished to a bright fingerprint-less sheen. He was nothing if not organized.
I walked over to retrieve an adjustable wrench from my stash of tools housed in a bright red wheeled storage cabinet. “You can’t be over-prepared,” my dad’s words echoed in my head. He was usually right, even though I never liked to admit it.
Due to the current situation in my city as well as the entire world, I decided, as my first project, to install the handheld bidet that I had ordered a week earlier on Amazon Prime. When I noticed the empty shelves typically loaded with toilet paper and paper towels, I decided it was time for a "Plan B." Citizens of other countries have been using bidets since the dawn of indoor plumbing and we have all heard how antiquated and weird they think Americans are for not using them. Being unfamiliar with the bidet in general, I watched a "How To" installation tutorial on YouTube…twice…before scrunching down between a wall and the toilet, in an area even a toddler would have trouble fitting into. My guest bathroom setup consisted of an alcove with a wall 12 inches from either side of the toilet. I folded myself into a pretzel-like position with the bidet kit and my plethora of tools and did my best to copy the guy in the video even though he had all the room in the world...not a wall in sight… around the example toilet.
First, I removed the tank lid, then turned the shutoff valve, located on the wall near the base of the toilet tank, one half of a rotation to cut the water off.
Next, I flushed the toilet, holding the handle down, until the tank was empty and put a plastic tub…a recycled deli meat storage container… down to catch any dripping water. I unscrewed the water line located on the flush valve at the bottom corner of the tank, then carefully wrapped the threads with the plumber’s tape that came with the kit.
Then, I replaced it with the two-way water splitter, also in the kit, and attached the handheld sprayer to the flush valve on the front. I then hooked the stainless bracket used to hold the sprayer when it was not in use, under the tank lid, and hung the handle of the sprayer in it for safekeeping. So far so good.
The hose I had originally detached from the flush valve, which provided water to fill the tank after each flush, was then reattached to the backside of the two-way splitter. All said and done, it took about 15 minutes.
I turned the water back on to check for leaks. Finding none, voila, we were back in business...prepared if the world ran out of toilet paper. If that time should come, I will have to watch a "How To" video on using that handheld sprayer without soaking the entire bathroom in the process.
Americans and bidets. We are so out of touch. Updates to soon follow!
By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events .
Published on Beneath the Surface News.
Day-Two of Work From Home (WFH)
On my second day of WFH (work from home), having completed my work, I couldn’t think of a project to begin that wouldn’t require a trip to my local hardware store. That would kind of defeat the purpose of work from home's concept of actually staying home. I decided to take a walk before it got too hot and humid, having already gained five-pounds-and-counting since the gyms closed. I quickly showered, put on sunscreen, my largest and brightest pair of yoga pants and a sleeveless tank top, then stepped into a stretchy lycra fanny-pack of sorts, hiking it up and around my waist. I dropped my phone into one of its many expandable pockets then as an afterthought, in separate pouches, added a tiny bottle of water, two tissues, and a ten-dollar bill. I felt prepared for any mini-emergency that might arise.
Buddy, the only one of our three rescue dogs physically able to walk long distances, was prancing around my legs as I tried to scoot him out the side door without the other two guys getting out. Dingo has trouble walking as he is over 15 years old with doggy vestibular disease, and Fred is so small that my normal pace has him sprinting the entire way. A survivor of heart-worms, any distance over a mile is more than his little heart can handle.
We finally wiggled out the side door, while hemming Dingo and Fred in the living room, and off we went. I glanced over my shoulder to see Fred's tall schnauzer ears, pug under-bite, and chihuahua eyes...he is a designer breed gone horribly awry...peeking over the lower edge of the windowed door. Keeping the social distancing standards, I blew him a kiss as we began our walk, heading down the driveway and into the street.
It was trash day and I noticed that each home had more than the normal amount of trash piled on curbs alongside their driveways. I began to take an interest in the boxes, stacked neatly at some homes and haphazardly scattered at others. People were preparing to hunker down if and when a shelter in place order was mandated.
As I neared one house, I heard the sounds of grunts and dull thuds echoing from an open garage. I was immediately concerned as my finger hovered over the “9” on my phone keypad, preparing to dial 911. Was there a violent spousal disagreement going on at that very moment? I thought back to times when my husband and I had gotten riled up over the most minor of things. Control of the television remote, not putting a dish in the dishwasher, forgetting to fill the dogs’ water bowls, who ate the last piece of cheese. Take this irritation and magnify it by one-thousand as people, already trapped indoors with one another for days and weeks, began to melt-down over life-changing situations. Unemployment, money to pay the bills, the ongoing threat of being infected by a virus no one yet understood, separation from loved ones and more, had tempers flaring. It was plausible that I was hearing a murder in progress.
Just at that moment a physically fit man, covered in sweat and wearing boxing gloves, stepped out of the garage. I looked toward his trash pile and there was a large box labeled “Everlast” followed by a long explanation of the “Benefits of a Heavy-Bag Workout” including how it would increase tricep and bicep strength, sculpt deltoids, sculpt the entire leg and define abdominals—burning up to 281 calories in a 20-minute workout. I was sold.
I whirled around…Buddy falling over his own feet at the abrupt change of direction…and speed-walked back toward the house. A brand new heavy-bag and a pair of boxing gloves were in my future. Look out, five-pounds-and-counting, you are about to be eliminated.
Just as I turned into my cul-de-sac, something in my neighbor’s trash caught my eye. The always recognizable Amazon box…in the midst of the uncharted water we cross with this pandemic…still smiling.
By Lisa H. Owens
Inspired by true events - 4/1/2020
"TNY Rejections" screenshot by lisa
Copyright © 2023, Lisa H. Owens and Lisahowens.com
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site's author/owner is strictly prohibited.
Website Built by I Am Mad Art and Autumn Year Round.
Proudly powered by Weebly